


A view of the heavens

by Adadzio



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Book 2: A Clash of Kings, First Time, Hoo boy Stannis is bad at this, Pre-Series, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-25 23:54:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12544124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adadzio/pseuds/Adadzio
Summary: There is a night, long before the clash of kings…





	A view of the heavens

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly there's…not much plot here…

**i.**

“Good evening, my lord.”

His head snaps up, rage seeping into his veins after the initial incredulity. She is a stranger to him still, this red priestess from Asshai. “What?”

“Good ev— “

He grinds his teeth so hard that pain shoots through his skull. “What do you think you are doing here?”

Pale wrists slip free of her red robe as she lifts a silver tray. The dullest light reflects off its surface, illuminating her strange eyes for a brief moment. “Here, my lord. I am merely tasked with—to deliver your evening meal.”

Stannis snorts at her clumsy grasp of his language. “I’d heard you were a priestess, often and at irritating length. Yet it seems you work for the kitchen shrews now.” At that, she has the decency to look abashed. “Is that a yes? First you stride in here without permission, next you look me in the eye like a gutter girl without respect, and now you fail to answer your lord’s questions. Well? Speak!”

Her gaze lowers, startled, to the damp stone floor. Clearly she had not expected him to live up to his harsh reputation quite so completely. He takes this moment to study her. Until now he has kept his distance, only glimpsing her at her nightfires or standing over a brazier, her eyelids heavy, as if caught in a dream. Those eyes shine like flames now, lined with black paint as only an Essosi might do. Her lips are red like her eyes, as if she has bitten them or stained them with the blood-red juice of pomegranate seeds. Even her pale cheeks are flushed pink, ruddy with heat. And that hair, those long, unkempt tendrils brushing the small of her back like so many copper flames. “My lord, it was the Lady Selyse who sent me.”

The edge of his annoyance abates, then returns double force. “My lady wife? Why would she send such a— ” _A creature so unlike him, a series of qualities in direct opposition to his own. Soft and warm where he is hard and cold, lovely and compelling where he is misliked and mistrusted._  He wants nothing to do with her. Yes, she is best kept at a distance, he has decided, best kept at his wretched wife's side. Stannis shakes his head, waving a violent hand at his desk. “Leave it here.”

She blinks at the floor, moving carefully forward without raising her gaze again. The sight is almost amusing. She continues to move with great slowness even after his paltry meal is delivered.  

His sigh is long. “And what else did my wife send you to do, pray tell? Convert me to your red gods?”

“God,” the girl corrects.

Stannis smiles, just a little. “You may go now.”

Bowing like a stableboy, she turns for the door. Before she can go three paces, he sees her halt and bend to retrieve an item fallen in her haste. Her hands begin to tuck something scarlet back into rough-spun robes.

“Stop.” He nods toward her hands. “What is that?”

“Nothing, my lord, a mere trinket.”

“You will learn to give a true answer,” he barks. “Face me, and show what you have.”

For the first time, she looks uncertain. She turns back to him, copper hair falling in her eyes, hand reaching out to offer the fallen object.

“A scrap of ribbon,” he scoffs, leaning over to wrench it from her. “Either you are a cooking wench or a second-rate seamstress.” A little line creases her brow. _Good_.

“It is not a scrap,” she argues.

“Raise your eyes.”

She does so, grudgingly. “It is not a scrap,” she says again.

“No?” 

The priestess reaches forward, boldly, pausing when he recoils. “Forgive me, lord, I only wish to demonstrate its purpose. It is for praying.” Those unnatural eyes glint from the light of the fire. “Would you like to try it?”

“No.” 

She tilts her head. “It can be enjoyable, devotion to R’hllor. He will grant you all you desire. All you deserve.”

Stannis settles back in his seat, studying her with a stony face. “Has he granted you such?”

Her smile is a brilliant thing. “Oh yes, my lord. R’hllor takes pity on his poor servants. I was the lowliest of all the world when he found me and raised me up. Now I am his, and he has given me power to spread his light.”

“That is all you desired?” Stannis wondered, grimacing.

“And to find his champion,” the priestess adds. He grimaces further, recalling his wife's obsession with eastern legends and warriors with fiery swords. 

He nearly jumps when she leans forward again, the forgotten ribbon still in hand. He can see that the scrap has beads on it, now, little beads of oily black stone that he wants as far from his person as possible. “You wrap it about your fingers, my lord.” Her dulcet voice is soft again, and the moment her warm skin brushes his, he begins to sweat. He cannot pull away this time. It is almost as if he is paralyzed. Deftly she works, winding the little silk through his fingers in some stupid pattern. “You count the prayers this way, my lord, with the beads. See?”

“I see." He really doesn’t, but is desperately uncomfortable to end the demonstration. It is pure fire where her skin touches his. His free hand twitches and he curls it into a tight fist. “You must pray a lot,” he adds, awkwardly. 

She is looking down at their still-twined hands. “I am not averse to being on my knees, my lord, serving he who commands it of me.”

With a jerking motion Stannis pushes her hands away and thrusts the tangled beads back at her. “You may tell my lady wife that you have preached at me. Now get out.”

“My lord— “

“Out!”

Blood is coursing hotly through his veins, roaring in his ears, and there is a sickening ache in his lower body. Stannis stands abruptly. He pours a cup of cold water down his throat, but it does little to relieve the discomfort. 

**ii.**

“She has a name,” Selyse asserts, quite sharply.

For the thousandth time he regrets not breaking his fast in solitude. “How fascinating!" he mutters. "I care not.” 

"You should."

He buries his pounding head in his hands. "Do you ever shut up, woman?" 

Selyse sets down her goblet with an exhale. "I ask that you not treat her so callously."

"Ah," he grits his teeth, "evidently I am not the only one who has brought you grievances."

"Just listen, for once. Lady Melisandre has true skill, and powers beyond our understanding."

"Oh? She's a _lady_ now?"

"I mean to grant her higher courtesies…with your permission, of course."

Stannis lets out a bark of laughter. "As if you sought permission to bring her into my castle in the first place."

His wife shoots him a pointed look. "Melisandre serves me faithfully, my lord, and would do likewise for you…if you allowed her."

_Melisandre_. He remembers her coy smile as she’d finally left the room. _Soft young Melisandre, comely and warm. Not warm, but burning—_

_Priestess. A priestess. The priestess of your wife._  

It seems as if a saucer of ice has been poured on his lap. Stannis rises in discomfort, waving his wife down when she stands.  _Melisandre._ Damn her. Annoyances bombard him as he stalks through his miserable castle. His footsteps echo the violent throbbing in his body and the litany of her cursed name. _Melisandre_. _Melisandre_. How he hates her. 

_How he wants her._

**iii.**

It is her fault, he tells himself, her fault for barging into his rooms again when she has no right. “ _Lady_ Melisandre,” he snaps, contempt plain in his voice.

“My lord.” She lays a hand on his arm, burning him to the core. 

He whirls around to catch her jaw, bruising it in an attempt to shut her up. “ _How dare you_ ,” he snarls, “by what madness do you presume such familiarity?”

The priestess tilts her heart-shaped face up at him, those heavy-lidded eyes glowing in the candlelight. “Forgive me,” she breathes. Stannis jerks away as she takes a step closer, but her body is pressed against his before he can stop it. White-hot desire shoots through body like flame, licking his flesh and boiling his blood. Her eyes trap him where he stands. “My lord…do not send me away.”

“Who are you to give me orders?” he demands, voice falling dangerously soft. He catches a flicker of vulnerability in her eyes. His gaze falls lower, to the rise and fall of her lovely pale chest, what glimpses he can get beneath layers of scarlet silk. She is dressed far finer than is her custom; no doubt a result of his wife’s patronage. “Lady Selyse sent you again,” he guesses. 

“No, ser.”

The answer surprises him. “Lord,” he corrects.

“My lord.”

“Then why are you here… _Lady Melisandre_?” 

Melisandre leans forward just slightly, enough that he becomes keenly aware of her breasts and the aching hardness in his groin. “I…” Her eyes lower and raise, almost demurely. Almost. “I wish only for you to understand my intent, my lord. My desire, and that of your lady, is that you look to R’hllor…” A slender hand ghosts his leather doublet, but it is quickly subdued in his cruel grasp. His blood pulses, the ache growing stronger by the second. _Gods above, end this torment…_

“I care not for your god, nor any other.”

A red, silky thigh slips through his much-larger, much rougher legs, and a sandalled foot brushes against the ankle of his boot. “My lord, please have faith. Allow the Lord to set fire to your heart.” Before he knows what is happening, her lips brush his.

A hiss rises in his throat. “Enough.” She does not stop. “I said—“

Her hand teases the bulge between his legs and all rationality flees his mind. His lips crash against hers, clumsy and bruising, teeth and tongue clashing with hers. Melisandre makes a pleasant little noise and melts against him. “Do you have no honour?” he growls. He cannot stop his own hands from clawing at her waist, her hips and thighs, the fullness of her bottom. "Answer me, damn you. What sort of priestess are you, to be lacking in the basic virtues?"

“Tell me you don't want this,” she retorts against his mouth. Oh, her lips are burning him, her eyes set him on fire, her— 

“I don't,” he insists, furiously. But somehow he cannot stop, cannot push her away. He can feel her nipples through her gown, feel the heat of her breath on his chest. “Gods, girl, leave this room now, if you don't…”

“I want you, my lord.” He clenches his jaw, closing his eyes, trying to restrain his frantic lust. She leans up to kiss the erratic pulse beneath his ear. “Please,” she sighs. Something in him breaks, and he turns her around, crushing her back to his chest, scraping his teeth along her neck. 

He can not think with his cock throbbing against her. He brings a hand to her shoulder and bends her over his desk, renting her skirts up, ripping and tearing and groping at warm flesh. Melisandre does not protest, merely arches her hips back, and he allows her, dares her to feel every inch of his aching desire against her bare bottom.

He sees her eyes widen ever so slightly. "My lord," she murmurs. 

“Isn't this what you came for?” he asks hoarsely. In one moment he is fumbling with the laces of his breeches and freeing himself, and in the next he is grasping his cock and guiding it inside her. “Isn't this what you wanted, priestess?” He slams himself in, surprised to find that she is not dry. She is heavenly, truth be told. He has never felt such heat, such searing bliss. Withdrawing slowly, he feels her lithe body fluttering all around him. He grits his teeth to steady himself, and then he eases back in to the tight sheath and he takes her.

It is awkward at first, but soon his hips are knocking against her, pushing her into the desk with every thrust. "You made me do this," he accuses, "turned me into a savage of a man, burning for you, wicked—weak— " Stannis tries to control his breathing, but it is laboured as his fingers curl about her waist, digging into her belly. "What trick is this, what dark spell have you put on me? Have you nothing to say for yourself?"

"Don't stop," she whispers.

A groan escapes him. He notices how the ends of her copper hair have fallen loose, how they brush the desk with every movement, how very human she looks with her cheek pressed against the surface. She stares, transfixed, into the brazier in the corner of the room, even as he’s deep inside her. “What do you see?” he asks harshly.

“My lord?” To his satisfaction she is breathless as well.

“What—do—you— _see_?”

Melisandre shudders beneath him. “I see…” From his position behind her he notices the faintest gleam in her eye. “A warrior wielding a red sword, the sword of heroes. I see you…a king.” 

He cannot help it when he comes apart, though he gathers enough of his wits to pull out of her. She stays where she is, seemingly unperturbed by the seed painting her thighs. 

At least he has done one thing right. Stannis runs both hands over his face, feeling somewhat inebriated. “Get up,” he says, dully. In the meantime he rights himself, as much as he can, and steadies his ragged breathing.

"My lord— "

“You may take your leave.” His hands are tightly fisted. “Never come here again.”

“Never?” Her gown is falling off her shoulders, and he can't help but admire the slender body before him, the shifting red eyes. He ponders her reactions to him, the way she had pressed herself against him, impaling herself when he had stopped moving. _Never again?_ A dozen images dance through his mind, unwanted. _Her white thighs spread across his bed, nipples peaking through her fiery hair, her red lips stretched over his cock—_

“No. I will keep my distance, as will you. Quietly.” Melisandre dares to smile, as if she knows some hidden truth. "Go," he says, ashamed of how desperate he sounds. "Pray, or whatever it is you really do."

**iv.**

In the year following, he becomes king. The memory of that night still fills him with shame, even after they have been together again and again, at her urging and his. He cannot blame her anymore, for it is he who brings her on campaign under the pretense of being his standard bearer. 

"Do you see that banner?" He points at a spot high above his pavilion, where the fiery heart of R'hllor flies proud.

She is a vision dressed in ruby velvet from head to toe, complete with red riding boots and the hooded cloak he has gifted her. "I see it, my king."

"That is your heart," he says lowly, ducking his lips to her ear. "Your very heart, Lady Melisandre."

Later, when they are entangled in his war tent, he acknowledges that he did not keep his distance for long at all.

**v.**

Perhaps Melisandre is surprised, or perhaps she knew exactly how he would fall under her spell; he is too preoccupied with his head between her thighs to care. He runs a rough thumb over her most sensitive spot, prompting her to yelp and buck her hips up. He catches her legs in a hard grip before she can shut herself off from him. “Lie still,” comes his chiding order. He will make sense of this mystery, no matter how long it takes.

"Forgive me, my king." Her cheeks are rosy; whether from exertion or embarrassment, he does not know. "It is— I never— "

"At least you have _some_ of the innocence I'd expect in a priestess." She kicks at him, managing to land a foot against his chest. He groans, restraining her ankle with iron force. “Do you insist on being disobedient?"

"In my land it is not…" Again he ducks between her legs, this time allowing no resistance from her. "A _—ah."_

He pulls back to frown. "Are you injured?"

“Continue,” she whimpers, “please, please, please—“ 

“Gods, woman, I heard you the first time.”

Her nails carve little crescents into a wiry forearm. “Please,” Melisandre pants again, twisting helplessly beneath his restraining arms. His thumb rakes once more between her legs, followed by his tongue, and then he repeats his ministrations over and over again. This time he does not chastise her when her hips buck up, wild, desperate, thighs clenching around his head. 

Finally she yields to her pleasure, her body trembling in the throes of it. “Stannis," she cries, much louder than he would have preferred, and with too much familiarity, though the defeat in her tone pleases him.

Normally at this point he would call for a knight to escort her back to her own tent. But tonight he is more patient, and murmurs low praises into her ear. She seems dazed, as if she has never lost control so completely before.

“Do you feel as debauched as I, for once?"

She smiles softly, having regained some hold of her senses. “R’hllor does not frown upon the arts of love, Your Grace.”

This sounds contrived, but Stannis is not about to argue. He deigns to stretch out an arm, and she curls into it, practically purring. “Does R’hllor understand that your thighs nearly choked me, just now?”

She stifles her amusement, nuzzling his collarbone. “Forgive me, my king.”

He strokes a hand through her long, loose hair, feeling the heat of her back through its strands. _She is so beautiful._  Never before has he let himself think so, never spoken it aloud, but here, in his arms, it cannot be helped. _Melisandre, Melisandre._  He lets his lips brush against her forehead, although he would have preferred her sighing lips, or the fragrant curve of her neck, or the silky wetness he could still feel between her legs. “It would not be the most unpleasant way to die,” he admits.

“My king?”

He ponders the canvas ceiling of his pavilion, unwilling to voice his obscene thoughts aloud. _At the least I would die with a view of the heavens._

**vi.**

Davos arrives in the Stormlands, fresh off his beloved ship, his knuckles swinging merrily about his neck. He falters at the sight of the priestess in the king's tent. "What is that eastern woman doing here?"

Stannis overhears, and shoots him a scathing look. "She has a name, ser."


End file.
